5 years ago one of my online friends had a still born baby. 8 months later another online friend had her 7 month old baby die very suddenly from an illness from which it appeared she was getting well.
I vividly remember thinking that the death of one of my children was the *one* thing I couldn't survive; the *one* thing that would surely break me. 4 months later I was planning my daughter's funeral and trying to understand how to choose a headstone for a child.
The day she died I remember rubbing my lips a lot. I could feel my lips. I couldn't feel much else. I remember getting into an elevator at the hospital and another woman was in there. She asked me what was wrong. It was the first time I said the words "My daughter just died."
Over the next days I practiced what to say in various situations. Grocery store with several children: "How many children do you have?" "I have 8 still at home with me." Much better and easier than "12, but 3 are married and one died." I got caught when I was shopping for funeral clothes and the checker asked it the wrong way. She asked how many daughters I had. I burst into tears and couldn't answer at all.
There are so many things about losing Rachael that are so hard, and so painful.
But here is the thing. It didn't destroy me. It didn't break me, though it tried hard. I never thought I could do it, but God held me and with His help I *did* do it. The one thing I thought I couldn't do the *one* thing that was impossible, I had to do.
People look at us, Pete and I, and I see it in their eyes. They don't even know what to say to us sometimes because we have lived the unthinkable and the unbearable; the one thing they think they couldn't do if it came to that. They think we are special and have faith that they don't possess; that we turned to God in a time when they would turn away and blame God for their pain.
They look up to us for having the faith to bear this burden. They think that we have done something that would be impossible for them to ever do. The pity us and admire us in equal measures. I didn't do anything special. I survived because that was what I had to do. God put it there and there wasn't a lot of choice about whether to do it or not. Was suicide an option? Was choosing to let my kids live without a real mom an option? Was turning from God an option? Was hatred or anger at the woman who hit her an option? Was going to bed and not getting out an option? Yeah I suppose. They all crossed my mind at one time or another. But when it comes down to it, they are not real options.
So I didn't do anything special. I woke up every day, and did my best. I wake up every day and do my best. Some days it is better than others, and I sure don't feel like being admired for waking up is appropriate. It feels kind of weird actually.
I know how they feel though. I felt that way too once.
